


The Jade Cat

by Zoop (zoop526)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Head Injury, Memory Loss, Post-War, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2396903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Horde army veteran takes his produce to the market one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jade Cat

The sun bakes the back of Lark's green neck, the hue darkened by long hours uprooting weeds and plowing furrows in the damp earth. He pauses and straightens, leaning on his hoe. The dingy cloth he pulls from the pocket of his overalls only pushes the sweat around now; he briefly notes that he ought to fetch a fresh one before tucking it back in. Taking the long wooden handle in hand once more, he hacks into the stubborn root interfering with the straightness of the furrow.

War was kinder to Lark than most. He emerged older, wiser, and mostly intact. He can boast all four limbs, at any rate. A gnomish landmine robbed him of a few fingers when he tried to disarm it, and perhaps his hearing isn't what it used to be. One side of his face is slack and empty-seeming, and there is a dent where the shattered part of his skull was removed, but he doesn't suffer the dizzy spells anymore, and he can remember his nearest neighbor's name if he thinks about it for a moment.

He was granted an honorable discharge and a pension, even though he recalls there was an argument about it. If he concentrates, he remembers the Warchief calling him useless. Someone – Lark's commander? – must have told Hellscream that fourteen Orcs walked away from that battle when Lark took the brunt of the blast, because here he is, planting turnips and carrots and cabbages like his grandfather used to do when Lark was a boy.

Although to be fair, none of these things can grow in the Barrens. Lark can't remember what his grandfather planted, or even if he did. He just knows there was a farm. There are many holes in his memory he has given up trying to fill.

The soil of Pandaria is rich and full of magic. A seed planted today bursts into flower within hours, and is ready for harvest by the next day. Lark continues to be amazed by this, though he has seen it hundreds of times. Even as he carefully pats the earth over a pumpkin seed he has just planted, he knows that something startling will happen, but cannot recall what it might be. Each morning when he rises with the sun and sees his garden plot bursting with fresh vegetables ready to pick, he is overcome with humble joy, reassured that the spirits of this land are pleased with him.

Once he has all the seeds planted in each row, he surveys the results with satisfaction. He is mildly surprised to see the sun descending, for he hasn't noticed its journey. Nodding to himself, he goes to the well and draws a bucket full of water. He splashes his face and rubs his neck. He closes his eyes and smiles. It has been a good day.

* * *

Morning dawns brightly, and Lark is already up. He has filled several bushels of cabbages, a childlike grin on his face for it is a bountiful harvest. Wasn't it only yesterday that he planted the seeds? Perhaps it was longer ago. No matter. He loads the baskets into a cart.

While he secures his yak in the harness, his soft-booted foot scuffs something hard on the ground. Thinking it a rock, he ignores it. The yak was a gift of the Grummle guides of Kun-lai Summit, in gratitude for Lark's service. Though he doesn't remember any of it now, he escorted supply carriers between Eastwind Rest and One Keg, protecting the Grummle from Yaungol marauders and hostile wildlife. When told of his retirement, they sent the yak to help him on his new farm. He spent several days trying to remember who Cousin Yakshoe and Grammpa Spoon were.

There are some things he does remember, and not simply because he sees her at the market so often. Grenda left the army not long after Lark did. While she's never given her reason, he can guess why: her sword arm is missing. Now she is running a stall, taking in the produce supplied by locals and retired veterans like Lark, and selling it to the army.

The rock trips up Lark as he's coming around to climb into the cart for the hour-long journey to Half-Hill Market, and now he looks down with an annoyed crease in his brow. But it is not a rock that has demanded his attention.

Bending down, he digs the dully glinting object from the dirt. Curiosity mounting, he squats down and uses his remaining fingers to carefully scrape at the earth, for it becomes obvious very quickly that this isn't a rock.

It is small enough to fit in his large hand, and for several moments he isn't sure what it is meant to be. He brushes more dirt off, gradually revealing the light green coloring and pearlescent sheen. The glitter of citrine catches his attention.

"What are you, pretty little thing?" he murmurs, narrowing his eyes and rising to his feet. He draws the bucket from the well, and dips the oddment into the water. Caked and clumped earth fall away to reveal a jade cat statue with sparkling yellow-gemmed eyes.

Perhaps because she is in his thoughts now, Lark decides that this little trinket would be perfect for Grenda. Her eyes are a lovely shade of green, very like the stone of this cat. He takes extra care in cleaning it until it shines.

The cart bounces and lurches on the dirt road, but Lark pays it no mind. His thoughts have wandered as they often do. A flock of large plainshawks, white against the cerulean sky, cast their shadows on the ground as they fly overhead, and Lark's eyes follow them. He recalls a hunt with his troop, seeming ages ago, for the memory is vague. The other Orcs' faces elude him, as do their names. For a moment, he is frustrated. He hears again the words of his Warchief – 'weakling, unfit for use' – and he bows his head in shame. Then the troubling thoughts drift away like breeze-blown clouds, and he chuckles, wondering what saddened him on such a lovely day.

Soon, the market is close enough to see the blue banners strung from tall poles. Lark smiles and his chest swells; he is proud of the vegetables he transports, knowing they will aid the war effort. He is still doing his part.

He climbs down from his cart near Grenda's stall, and greets her warmly. Her brow is pinched with concentration, and she chews her lip as she checks over his goods. He must remind himself that though her good arm is gone, she does not want help unasked for. So he waits patiently and watches her cradle an inventory pad in the crook of her half arm, and slowly, awkwardly mark the tally with her left hand. Her eyes truly are a lovely shade of green.

"Grenda," he says, suddenly recalling the statue. "I found this for you."

She pauses to look at the small cat in his hand, and her lovely green eyes seem to shimmer in the sunlight. Lark worries that she doesn't like it, for she puts the pad and charcoal stub down, and covers her mouth with one hand. She looks at him, and he sees a tear slide down her cheek.

"Thank you, Lark," she says, her voice husky. He doesn't know what he's done, and apologizes for upsetting her. "You haven't. Thank you. I'll put it with the others."

He frowns uncertainly. "You have others?"

Her smile is sad, and she touches his arm, then his face. "Yes. You've given me nine."

"Have I?" he asks with surprise. She nods, her chin quivering as she struggles not to weep.

"I don't mind," she assures him. "You are still my ma-... my captain."

He looks at her strangely, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "I don't remember you," he says quietly. "When was I your captain?"

Grenda shakes her head, her smile strained. "It doesn't matter. Thank you for this." She looks at the cat in her hand. "I never tire of them."

She finishes inventorying Lark's vegetables and shows him where to put them until the courier from Domination Point comes for them. Smiling broadly, he carries the bushels into her stall one by one, thinking to himself that he should get her something pretty to match her eyes.


End file.
